


I'll be Seeing You

by backtopluto



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, it's a major theme, name truthing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29757618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backtopluto/pseuds/backtopluto
Summary: George was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to come back.Sometimes, he thinks he should have taken his final breaths in a rattling plane above the English Channel. When he returns from the war, he doesn't know where to go next, or what a world without war even looks like. That is until an old friend appears on his doorstep, and George finds he might have to rethink some things.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 63





	I'll be Seeing You

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title is from I'll be Seeing You by Billie Holiday, chapter title is a quote from a Neville Chamberlin speech given on September 30th, 1938

**1946**

George hasn’t done much with his life since he returned home. He supposes the only significant thing at all worth mentioning, is that he at long last moved out of his parent’s house. In a way, he had almost felt bad about it. His mother clearly didn’t like being separated from him, not after the war. But he could no longer handle their nagging, his mother asking again and again about a girl, while his father just looked at him like he wasn’t sure if he knew George at all. 

They kept expecting him to go back to normal, back to the smiling son they had raised who was endlessly curious about things, who spent his day playing in the mud and reading books. George couldn’t go back to that. Not after the things he’d seen. The things he’d done. 

So, he moved away. Not far. Not to America like he thinks he would have liked, just to the other end of the tiny town in the south of England that he’d been born into. It was far enough that his mother could still invite him over for tea, but just far enough that George could claim to be busy, just far enough that they didn’t bother him. 

His home is at the very edge of the town, and looks out over the rolling countryside and the sparse farms scattered across it. It is located at the end of a long, winding dirt path, too small for a car to fit down. The house is old and run down, and the roof needs to be repaired and the windows fixed, but it feels more like home than his childhood house ever did. 

The house is messy. Books and papers are scattered everywhere, old coffee mugs and dirty plates are stacked on drawers and cabinets. There’s yellowed newspapers and sweaters and every other thing imaginable scattered over the old floors, and George can’t find it in himself to bother cleaning it up. He can’t find it in himself to do much of anything lately, in fact he hardly remembers to shower these days. 

He remembers everything and nothing at all from the war. He can feel it, see vague shapes of images floating just beyond his mind’s eye, simmering like a kettle on the stove. Some days are worse than others. Some days, he can almost pretend it didn’t happen at all, other days he is stuck inside with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he blinks at the wall, seeing things and hearing voices that aren’t really there. But most days are somewhere in between. 

He knows that he will always be like this. That the life he lives now, as much as it feels like purgatory, could very well be forever. That’s terrifying. 

George lives each day in fear of the next, each day is just him trying to scrape by. He knows that the sound of a car backfiring and fireworks will always make him freeze up and reach for a button that isn’t there. He thinks that most people want to kill him, and that may just be the worst part of coming home. 

But even with all that, there are parts of the war George misses. Looking back, he didn’t think there was anything about the war he could possibly miss. He had hated sleeping in a room with about thirty other men, privacy shoved out the window. He hated being woken at the oddest hours by a shrill, ringing siren alerting them of yet another Luftwaffe attack. George had hated the fear that crawled up his throat when the Messerschmidts appeared from the clouds like hawks, or the V1 and V2 flying bombs, that only the best pilots could disable. He hated seeing the bombers be blown apart, spiral to the land or sea below and break apart. He hated that his friends didn’t always make it back. 

So, yes there was a lot to hate about the war. And yet, George found himself missing the camaraderie, the shared exhaustion. He missed the jokes the others would make at ungodly hours of the morning, and teasing Wilbur about the copious amounts of letters he received every week from home, and how it took the entire squadron to understand his little brother’s handwriting. George misses the feeling of being in the air, the hum of the Spitfire around him and the flames that shot from the engine when he turned on the plane. 

Although he’d rather be torn limb from limb than go back into combat, he missed it. Missed it terribly and it made him feel more guilty than he had any right to. How many people died for the world to be at peace? Only for George to be unable to properly appreciate it? He left the best parts of himself in a plane over the English channel. 

Most of all, and he only thinks about it in the quiet, early parts of the morning when he is startled awake from another vicious nightmare, he misses  _ him _ . 

George’s memories of Dream are stored in a tiny locked-box located at the very edge of his mind. When he does think of him he hates that he still unravels at his thoughts, still yearns and pines over a man whose body is most likely in the wreckage of a plane, deep in the guts of Germany. 

That’s all it takes for the rush of feelings to completely overwhelm him, to send George reaching for the kitchen counter as he watches the slow dribble of coffee into his mug. He wants to reach into the past and slap sense into his former self, remind him that going to bars is  _ bad _ , that speaking with cocky, American bomber pilots with little to lose and a war in front of them was a truly horrible idea on George’s part. 

But as much as he wishes he could change the past, he also knows it’s impossible. As far as he is aware, if time travel was possible someone would have kept the blasted war from happening in the first place. So instead, he thinks of a lopsided grin and American cigarettes and the promise of,  _ I’ll see you again.  _ As though promises had ever done anything. 

The coffee finishes dripping into the mug and George takes a long and grateful swig of it, as if it will push the memories away and fix all his problems. It seems to, if only for a moment. 

George is tired. He shouldn’t realize it then, it shouldn’t take a mug of black coffee staring back at him to realize it, but he does. He feels the weight of all his memories, the war, his parents and the past,  _ Dream _ \- all of it sitting on his shoulders. He has no direction, nowhere to go. Just the past and all its weight, and everyone reminding him that he can’t go backwards. 

He takes another sip of the coffee. He only drinks the stuff to stay awake, because the only thing worse than being awake is being asleep. In sleep, everything is unfiltered. He can’t push back the images the way he can when he’s conscious. It’s probably not healthy, prescribing coffee to himself just to keep the nightmares at bay, but he can’t think of any alternatives and George sure as hell isn’t gonna go around asking for advice. He probably should see a doctor, they could prescribe him a miracle drug that would really knock him out, with no dreams and just sleep. He could finally get the rest he needs. 

George’s eyes flick over to the pile of mail sitting on his counter. The top letter lays open, Wilbur’s neat and curling writing looking back at him. Most of the letter is simply Wilbur asking after him, asking if he’s eating and sleeping and if he is still thinking about going back to school to finish his engineering degree before the war blew it to shreds. The letter tells George about Wilbur’s own life, about how he moved back in with his family and it isn’t even that bad. At the very end, squeezed onto the last bit of space the paper has left to offer is the announcement- the entire family is moving to the same little village that George lives in, for some absolutely unfathomable reason. George only sighs as he reads it again. If Wilbur genuinely comes out to visit, he’s gonna have to get himself together. He’s been spinning lies in their letters ever since they both returned home. 

He’s taking another sip of the coffee when a knock sounds on the front door. George frowns, glancing at the clock. It seemed an odd time for his mother to stop by and he doubted it was Wilbur already. He couldn’t think of any conceivable reason for anyone to be knocking at his door, not at eight AM on a Sunday when the entire town was at church. 

George isn’t sure if he wants to get it. Actually, he’s pretty positive he does not want to get it. He looks a complete mess, his house is even worse, and all he really wants to do is finish his coffee and go back to staring blankly at a wall. Maybe he’ll bring himself to actually weed out his garden today. 

He really, really doesn't want to get it, but he knows he has to. With a long sigh, George opens the door and his mind, heart, and stomach all consecutively drop through his feet. 

“Mornin’, Georgie.” 

This isn’t happening. George must be dreaming. Or drugged. He half expects a Stuka to come barreling from the clouds and drop a bomb on both their heads. He thinks it might be more merciful than whatever was happening now, because there is still absolutely no way this is George’s reality. 

Dream looks exactly how he remembers. He still has a mop of unruly blonde hair, freckles dusting across his face, and the same honest green eyes. He was still wearing his bomber jacket from the war, the one he could never bring himself to part with. He’s just as tall as George remembers, still carries himself with that frustrating sense of self-authority. He’s thinner than George remembers, like he hasn’t eaten in a day or two. He’s tired, his eyes aren’t as bright as when they’d last seen one another. 

There was still no way this was happening, even as George took in every piece of Dream, he couldn’t wrap his head around it. It had been well-over a year since George had last seen him at the little, backwater pub that sat between the English and American air bases. Dream had been smiling so much, looking at George as if he’d hung the sun, the moon, and all her stars. George still remembers the smell of his Lucky Strikes, and the taste of the Hershey bars he’d always take from his rations and give to George, who hadn’t so much as seen chocolate since the war began six years prior. He’s still Dream. 

The grin on Dream’s face wavers slightly. “Are you gonna say something or just stand there and look pretty?” 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Is what George comes up with, and it’s as good of a place to start as any. Dream’s smile falls completely as he looks at George, as if he had honestly been expecting a different reaction. 

“Can I come in?” 

“Not until you tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.” George replies, his mind finally catching up with reality. “You’re supposed to be  _ dead _ .” 

“Those aren’t very welcoming words.” Dream jokes, but at the anger he must see in George’s face he draws the conclusion that that had perhaps been the wrong choice of words. “It’s a long story. Can I come in?” 

“How’d you even find me?” George says, throwing up his arms. “Why’d you find me?” 

“I-” Dream glances around, looking anywhere but at George. He has a bag slung over his shoulder, a large one at that. It looks like his old military bag, meaning Dream probably planned to stay. “I wanted to see you.” 

“A year and a half!” George exclaims. “A year and a half since I last saw you, since I figured the Krauts had finally bagged your sorry ass and you were six feet under in a grave somewhere in western Europe.” Maybe this isn’t the place for this conversation, right here on George’s doorstep. Maybe he should invite Dream in, offer him coffee and slowly come to grips with it. Maybe he should be throwing himself into Dream’s arms, or maybe he should be punching him under the jaw. He should just close the door in his face without so much as a goodbye because it wasn’t as if Dream had granted him the same courtesy. 

“You thought I was dead?” Dream’s voice is thin as a breeze ruffles his hair and the flowers behind him. 

“What else was I supposed to think?” George crosses his arms. “Ten bombers go down each mission, because you stupid Americans insited on daytime raids.” 

“Wasn’t my idea.” Dream laughs, and another breeze sweeps in, bringing with it the scent of George’s coffee, left forgotten on the counter. “Is that coffee?” 

George sighs and steps back from the doorway, allowing Dream to walk inside. As much as it would feel good to punch Dream in the face, or slam the door on him, George knew from the moment he opened the door that that wasn’t gonna happen. He cared too much about him to turn him away, not when his bleeding heart was finally beginning to feel hope again. 

George closes the door behind them. Dream’s shoes crunch on an old newspaper on the floor. The radio hums in the background, and George makes out the vague and crackling voice of Princess Elizabeth through the speakers, “ _ This is a happy day for me, but it is also one which brings serious thought, thoughts of life looming ahead, with all it’s challenges, with all it’s opportunities-”  _

He reaches over and shuts it off as Dream gazes at the house, eyes lingering on the mess but thankfully without saying anything. He bends down to pick up a fallen copy of  _ Wuthering Heights  _ and delicately returns it to the shelf as George watches him from the kitchen. When Dream looks back at him, George looks away and starts another pot of coffee.

If seeing Dream on his doorstep had been odd, seeing him standing in his house and picking up his books was even stranger. George pinches the skin of his arm roughly, surprised when he actually feels a twist of pain. 

George glances back over at Dream as the coffee drips into the new mug, where Dream is crouched down on the living room floor, scratching the back of his cat’s ears. 

As quick as it had come, his anger drains. It leaves him even more exhausted than before, wrung out and left to dry. With the lack of anger comes exhaustion, as though someone had seeped the vitality from him. George swallows, watching Dream’s hands. “Do you still like it with milk and sugar?” 

“Huh?” Dream looks at him. “Oh yeah. You remembered that?” 

“Of course.” George replies, watching the coffee ripple with each drop. Dream toes off his shoes and sets them neatly beside George’s on the floor. An unidentable feeling crawls up George’s throat. He aches. 

Dream sits at the dining room table, his bag at his feet. He starts poking through the various books and newspapers littering the surface. 

“Don’t touch that stuff.” George says. 

Dream withdrawals his hand like George burned him. “Sorry.” 

George shakes the coffee maker in an attempt to get it to work faster. It doesn't help. “How did you get my address?” 

“Well,” Dream leans so far back in his chair it threatens to fall over. “I remembered you mentioning this little place, so I asked around. Didn’t take long before some respectable Church-goer pointed me in the right direction. I’m surprised you weren’t with them.” 

George looks at him from over his shoulder, then looks back at the coffee. It’s almost done, and he’s not sure what he’s gonna do when the distraction is gone. “Haven’t we had this conversation?” 

“I just got here and you want to talk about God?” 

“You brought it up.” Maybe George should throw him out. He doesn't look at Dream, even though he can feel his eyes burning holes into the back of his skull. George doesn't say anything else, just presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth and carefully stirs in the milk and sugar. The rich scent of the coffee fills his home and winds between them. 

“I can go, George, if you don’t want me. I get it. I didn’t mean to bother you.” Dream says, cracking open the silence. It isn’t like him to be like this. He’d always been dismissive, too confident and full of himself to consider anyone else around him. George recalls being surprised to find out he was a bomber pilot, not a fighter. He always seemed to look at the world like a fighter would. 

He’s different now. But George supposes he is too. 

“It’s okay.” It isn’t. He sets the mug in front of Dream, almost spills it. “I made you coffee.” 

Dream looks between George and the coffee, looks at the tiny spoon sitting against the edge of the mug. “I can go.” 

“No, it’s fine.” He says it a bit too quickly as he drops onto the chair across from Dream and begins piling all the crap on his table into one pile, suddenly embarrassed of the mess. “I’m just… processing.” 

Dream raises an eyebrow. “Processing?” 

George looks at him sharply. “It’s not everyday a ghost walks through your front door.” 

Dream sighs and takes a sip of the coffee. It’s a bit hot still, but George watches the surprise flicker across his face. Dream drinks half of it one sip. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.” 

“You do.” George agrees, setting another book onto the pile. 

“I guess I just wanted to catch up.” Dream admits. “I missed you.” 

“You  _ missed  _ me?” George cries, the anger returning as quick as it left. “You think you can just ‘die’ on me, not show up for over a year, without so much as a goodbye or a letter or something? Did the flak scramble your brain that bad? A year and a half and you just want to catch up? Like we’re golfing buddies or some shit?” 

Dream’s face falls, and a horrible curl of satisfaction burns in George’s gut. “I, uh,” He clears his throat, searching for the right words. “I made the twenty-five missions. I knew I was gonna make it, probably a week or two before. I wanted to tell you. Kept wanting to tell you. I didn’t know how.” 

The twenty-five missions. The realization hits George like a bomb and his stomach drops to his toes. At twenty-five missions, every member of a bomber crew got to go home. Never again would they face combat, never again would they weave between bouts of flak or German fighters. They could go home and see their families, return to normal, their plane would be put in a museum. 

But that rarely happened. Only 25% of bombers returned from the war unscathed, even less went home at the twenty-five mission mark. Dream was never shot down. Dream had merely gone home and never bothered to tell George. 

“Why?” George asks, and it sounds sad. “Why didn’t you say something? I would have been happy for you, Dream.” 

“Because you’d been doing that shit for years!” Dream explains, leaning forward. “I’d been in combat for maybe five months and I was looking to go home. You didn’t get to go home unless you were blind or dead. The twenty-five mission courtesy didn’t extend to fighter pilots, and it certainly didn’t extend to British fighter pilots. I didn’t know how to tell you that I got to go home while you were left here to clean out the rest of the Luftwaffe, not when you’d been at it for years already.” 

George stares. “You thought I’d be  _ jealous  _ that you were going home?” 

“Not jealous, that’s the wrong word.” Dream takes another swig of the coffee before continuing. “It was unfair. I wanted to take you home, too.” 

George’s head spins, but instead of continuing Dream just plows onwards. “So I cowered out of it. I took a ship home the same morning you were flying over the channel, and I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” 

“But you came back.” George says slowly. 

“Yes.” Dream agrees. “I came back to set things right.” 

“Then what are you gonna do?” 

Dream blinks. “What?” 

“What’s your next step, Dream? Now that you’re here. Tickets across the Atlantic aren’t cheap.” George leans back, Dream’s gaze following him in a way that makes George’s heart pound. 

“Well,” He looks around again, watches George’s cat jump onto the table and start poking through the stuff. George doesn't bother to shoo her off. “I could start by helping you clean?” 

“Are you calling me messy?” 

Dream gestures towards the table and the room around them. “What other word would you use for this house?”

George bites his tongue. “Cluttered.” 

He snorts. “Cluttered?” 

“Yeah.” George nods. “Cluttered.” 

“Alright.” Dream says carefully. “It’s cluttered. I’m still gonna help you fix it up.” He looks up, his gaze catching on George’s. “Fix you up.” 

George narrows his eyes. It’s horribly reminiscent of the war, the constant back and forth between them. They had always toed the line, made comments that should have gotten them punched in the face. But it never came, they just got closer and closer but never made the move. George constantly asks himself why. Why was he never able to make the jump? The only answer he can give is that it comes back to the war, just as it always does. It’s always the war. Neither of them knew which day was there last, didn’t think they could handle the heartbreak. 

“I don’t need it.” George replies, finishing his coffee. “I was doing fine until you knocked on my door.” 

“Fine?” Dream repeats. “George, you don’t look fine at all.” 

“What do you want me to say, Dream?” He means for it to be angry, but it’s just tired. “Huh? What the hell do you want me to say?” 

“You can tell me if you’re not okay.” Dream says. “You don’t have to lie to me.” 

“Do you want me to tell you that it’s been easy? That going back to civilian life has been fine, that it hasn’t bothered me at all? That I’ve adjusted well? I don’t go to Church, I haven’t gone back to school, I still haven’t gotten the skin graph. I don’t talk to anyone, my house is a mess, and I don’t sleep well. Is that what you want to hear?” 

“George.” Dream says like it’s all there is to say. George hates the way it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his heart pound. During the war, Dream said his name as much as he could, like he couldn’t get enough of it. “We don’t have to talk about it now, okay? I just- I missed you. That’s all I came here to say. I missed you and I’m sorry.” 

George doesn't even know what to say to that. He can’t say he missed him. He had thought Dream was dead. Now he’s here, sitting at his kitchen table like a ghost come to life. 

“Can I stay?” Dream whispers after a long moment has passed. “For now?” 

“How long have you been in England?” George asks, grateful for the change in topic, even if this one feels just as slippery as the last. 

“Oh, a month or so. I don’t know. Time is strange now.” 

Dream had been here for an entire month? Four long weeks and George had been none the wiser? Something painful twists in his chest. “A month?” 

Dream nods. “I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.” 

Once more, George ignores the statement. “Is it odd to be back?” 

“Yes.” Dream says instantly. “Back home you could forget there was a war. Most of us want to forget about the whole thing, and it’s easier. The civilians weren’t there for it. They don’t understand the sound of the sirens, or what it’s like to just pass by a town and find the entire thing devastated, as though it had been picked up and dropped so everything cracked apart. Here, people don’t have the luxury of forgetting.” 

George meets his gaze. It seemed an odd world, one where the war was distant and faroff. George couldn’t walk five blocks without finding a building with a hole in it’s roof. At the creek only a half mile from the house there was a V2 bomb that had landed and never exploded, and nobody was stupid enough to go anywhere near it. 

“America seems so… far. Like it only exists in movies.” 

Dream laughs at that. “We’ll go sometime. I’ll take you there.” 

George raises an eyebrow. “You’ll take me there?” 

“Of course.” Dream says, and just like that, they’ve locked each other into an unspoken forever. 

“Do you have diners out here?” Dream asks, midway through the day. They had spent most of it treading carefully through conversation, while Dream gave himself a headstart on cleaning up George’s house. George doesn't try to deter him, and he spends most of the day half-heartedly helping him and praying that his mother doesn't decide to visit. 

“A diner?” George repeats, the word feels foreign against his tongue. “No?” 

“Damn.” Dream mutters. “What do you have?” 

“There’s a pub.” George offers, although he’s pretty sure Dream wants nothing to do with pubs. 

Dream just shakes his head. “It should be a sin to live in a country without diners.” 

“Take it up with God then.” George replies, nonplussed as he shelves another book. It’s an old engineering textbook, and he thinks that maybe he really should consider going back to school. He supposes it just never seemed worth it, after everything that had happened. 

“Well what are we gonna eat then?” 

George glances at him and sighs. “I’ll make us something.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” Dream stares at him. 

“Should I let you starve?” George counters, and Dream snaps his mouth shut and continues cleaning. 

By the end of the day, the living room and the kitchen both look presentable. George isn’t really sure what to say as he stands there, looking out at the room that doesn't even look like it’s part of his house, while Dream stands proudly beside him. The radio crackles quietly in the background, some weather report or another playing as the sun is swallowed by the horizon and stars are scattered across the dark sky. 

George’s cat sits on the couch, looking at him with big yellow eyes. 

“Look,” Dream points, “the cat is happy.” 

“She is.” George concedes. “You didn’t have to do all this.” 

Dream shrugs. “I wanted to. I figured I’d be here for a little bit, anyways.” 

George glances at him but doesn't say anything as Dream continues to proudly admire his work. “Now I’ve just gotta do the rest of the house.” 

“I wish you luck.” George laughs. 

“It’s okay.” Dream looks over at him. “I’ve got time.” 

An old feeling swells in George’s chest. He thinks he’s floating, because it sounds like a promise and he isn’t even all that sure what the future looks like, what a future after a war could possibly encompass. 

Because sometimes George thinks he wasn’t supposed to come back. It’s a darker thought, one that makes his fingertips go numb and old wounds ache. He needs two sets of hands to count the number of times he almost died in the war, and maybe a third set to help out. His plane went down twice, burned up once. In both instances there really shouldn’t have been anyway George survived. The feeling that he wasn’t supposed to go home only increased tenfold in the last months of the war, especially after he thought Dream died. Because Dream had always seemed untouchable, that mortal grievances like death couldn’t find him. George doesn't know how he came to that conclusion, after all he and Dream had been fighting the same war. Dream was only in England at all because there was a war. But if the war hadn’t spared Dream, it shouldn’t have spared him. 

Now they’re standing side by side looking over a clean living room, and Dream is smiling at him the way he used to in that dark, crowded pub where they first met, and as much as George wants to continue to be mad at Dream, he finds he doesn't really have the energy for it. Dinner is cooking on the stove, and George just thinks about how perhaps this had been the unseeable future he’d always wanted but had never been able to put words to. 

Later that night, George pushes open the door to the spare room. It creaks on its hinges and the room is covered in a thin layer of dust, but it’s one of the rooms George hardly ever uses, and as a result, had escaped the hurricane-like conditions of the rest of his house. 

Dream sneezes as he walks in and George mumbles out an apology about the dust. 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not so bad.” Dream says, bag slung over his shoulder as he trails a finger over a dusty shelf and they both stare at the trail it left. 

“Right.” George says. 

Dream laughs brightly. “It’s just a bit of dust, it isn’t even bad-” His words are cut short when he throws open the closet door, and blinking back at them is George’s dress uniform and standard uniform, his boots at the bottom and his dress cap tucked neatly beside his flight cap and goggles on the top shelf. The temperature of the room drops by several degrees as George looks between Dream and the uniforms. 

The uniforms look just as they always have, and they’re nearly identical to one another. They’re the same grey and wedgewood blue that George remembers, and his goggles still have the crack in the corner from when a machine gun tore through the canopy of his Spitfire and sent the glass flying towards his face. George had forgotten the uniforms were there. He had stuffed them into the tiniest corner of his house, in a place where he’d never have to look at them again. 

“I’ll move those.” George says after the silence has stretched on too long, until it was thick and suffocating as cotton. “Sorry, I’d forgotten they were there.” 

Dream offers him a small smile. “I shoved mine somewhere I’d never see them again. I get it.” 

George steps forward. “I’ll find somewhere else to put them, you can get settled in.” 

Dream’s smile grows, into that overconfident one George had fallen in love with all that time ago. “I’ve always liked the RAF uniform.” 

George blinks, heart pounding against his chest. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Dream agrees, closing the closet door and opening the other side, where it’s fresh and blank and there’s no longer any sign of the war. Without another word, he opens his bag and begins fitting shirts on the hangers. By the time he’s done, it looks like Dream has always been there. George thinks he can get used to it. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Historical Notes:  
> -V1 and V2 flying bombs were unmanned, and were the first missiles ever created. The V2 could travel at the speed of sound and were incredibly dangerous.  
> -Chocolate was pretty much nonexistent in England from about 1939-1946 because of rationing, but American servicemen were always given Hershey bars in their rations, so Dream giving them to George was kind of a big deal.  
> -The speech Princess Elizabeth (now Queen) gave was actually from 1947, but she gave it on her birthday and it outlined her hopes for the post-war nation.  
> -The twenty-five missions was a real thing! Very rarely did bomber crews make it to the twenty-five missions, I think only a handful got to go home because of it. From what I could find, no such rule existed for British aircrews or fighter pilots.
> 
> As always thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! :) 
> 
> Tumblr: pluto-and-back  
> Twitter: backtopluto2


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